


iridescent

by Calloniel



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Bad Ending, F/M, Gen, General, Humor, Kinda, Romance, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-27
Updated: 2014-05-27
Packaged: 2018-01-26 16:47:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1695410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calloniel/pseuds/Calloniel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I looked at him. Really looked at him. When he left the Justice building, he would go home and watch the program of the reapings, and he would cry. I wanted to go home too. I would watch the slaughter of hundreds if I could go home. But instead of home, I would board the train that would lead me to deaths door. And once there, I would knock and say pleasantly, with a smile on my face, 'would you like a show with your dinner tonight?' Because there was only one victor in the games, and I had to make sure it was Avis. It had to be him. I wouldn't allow a world where he didn't exist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	iridescent

Life is like a picture book, I think. The words aren't quite so important, the thoughts in our head and the words that leak from our lips - they don't matter so much. It is the picture that tells the tale. Vibrant colors to express emotions, charcoal black against white for morals. The paintings deliver the message, the motif. But maybe I just look into it a bit too much.

I always wanted to make a picture book. But I never knew where to begin my story. And which story should I tell? I could paint you a picture of my life before. It was plain, dull browns and greys outlining. And after… reds. All reds, with a dash of blue. Blue like his eyes. Maybe I shouldn't make a picture book. It would either be too boring, or disturbingly violent.

But I  _do_  have a story to tell. Be warned: my story isn't what I had hoped it would be. I don't end up with the guy. I don't live happily ever after. This tale does not turn out all right in the end, for anyone. My story is a dark one.

However, I think I know where to start now. I'll begin with the day of the Reaping, when my brother was sent to slaughter.

* * *

I fixed the collar of Avis's shirt, hiding the small stain that betrayed the image of neatness. His small, 12 year old hands clutched my shoulders as I bent to tie his shoes. These, too, had been scrubbed, and instead of the dull grey they usually were, they had become an off white.

"You're going to be fine," I said with false cheerfulness. "There is only one slip of paper with your name on it in that bowl." Patting his leg, I looked up into his brown eyes; the same ones that I knew were shining right back at him. A shimmering line of water fell down his cheek as he sniffled. My smile faltered, and before he could see the weakness I turned to grab the tie we had chosen the night before. "Robert Cockinfield has his name in 32 times." Avis rubbed his eyes and made a small, terrified noise. I drew the small boy to me, hugging him to my chest as he cried. "It's all right," I crooned softly. "It's okay."

I think everyone cries their first Reaping. I know I did. Back then, our roles had been reversed - me, the crying child, and Avis my supporter. He probably didn't even remember. He had turned to me, and said in the simplest voice - "See you at dinner!" And that night, we had eaten with the relief that I would live to see another year.

My father appeared in the doorway, buttoning up the sleeves of his white shirt. It was strange, seeing Robin Winters wearing something  _not_  covered in coal. As a miner, the fine dust seemed to follow him everywhere, infesting our small home that lay squarely between the seam and the town. He walked with heavy footsteps, before crouching beside us to look at Avis.

"You'll do fine, son," He said in his deep, reassuring voice. "Nothing will happen to you. To  _either_  of you." He stared at me as he tacked on that last bit. I'm 16, borderline 17, with just over a year until I turn of age when I will no longer be eligible for the games. It meant that I would be safe. However, it also meant that the next time a famine came around, we wouldn't be getting any tesserae. Three years ago, District 12 had one of the most severe shortages of food since… well, since a long time. That was the only time I ever had to sign up, and I ended up with my name in an extra three times.

I patted Avis on his head and he released me. "Come on, or we are gonna be late!" I chirped in a mimic of Mayoria Kipler's voice. Mayoria was our Districts escort, and an amusing one at that. She always had a little bit of a lisp, which, mixed with her Capitol accent, made her sound like a drowning rat.

Well. That's what I compared her to. I didn't actually know what a drowning rat sounded like.

My antics drew a suffocated noise from the boy's lips, a sound I recognized as a chuckle. My father put a heavy hand on his shoulder, and took the forgotten blue tie from my hands. "Come on, Avis," he said. He stood to his full height and gave me a fond look. "Get cleaned up," he murmured. "We'll meet you on the porch." He gathered Avis and ushered him out the door, leaving me empty handed and surrounded by the silent air.

I stared at the closed door for a moment before walking to my dresser and the water filled basin resting atop it. Dipping a rag into the lukewarm liquid, I pressed and rubbed at my face, trying not to feel too disgusted when it pulled away dark with dirt. In truth, I was scared out of my mind. I had less than two years left -  _two years_. Which is plenty of time to go wrong. Plenty of time to be reaped. And this was only the beginning for Avis. He had always been weak, physically and mentally. Constantly afraid. He couldn't stand the sight of anyone or anything in pain. He had to leave the room whenever they showed the ruins of District 13 on the television.

He wouldn't stand a chance in the arena. I dragged the rag down my throat before rinsing it and splashing my hands. The water turned a murky color. I didn't have time to take a full on bath, but I wasn't that dirty anyhow. I left it there to soak and went to the old wooden chest at the foot of my bed. Inside laid my light green reaping dress, exactly where I left it last year. I lifted it gingerly, taking great care as I unfolded it and laid the dress on my bed. I stripped out of my pants and sweater and placed them in the chest. I unbuttoned the front of the dress just enough to slip my frame through, then buttoned it up my neck. It had a tall collar that brushed my jaw, something my teacher once told me had been considered high fashion. The sleeves ended at my wrist, and when I let the skirt fall it ended a few inches above my knees. I smoothed the creases with my hands and returned to the small mirror above my dresser.

Pale blonde hair fell down to my shoulder blades, the tips split and frayed. It was mostly straight, except for a couple of inches near end. Light brown eyes roamed around the pale face. The girl in the mirror didn't look how I felt. She looked young and brave, about to go out and meet her friends, maybe even a boy. They would go to all the shops even though they couldn't afford it and laugh. The girl looked like she smiled a lot. She looked as though she had never heard of the Reaping before.

The girl in the mirror should look scared.

I ran my fingers through my hair, trying to get out what few tangles I could. I only succeeded in making it frizzy. I reached into the small cup that held my meager amount of jewelry (most of it having belonged to my late mother) and smiled when my fingers brushed against a familiar artifact. It was a hairpin, made of gold wiring with different pieces of colored glass. It was made to look like a butterfly, its wings rainbows of color. The smile on my face only grew as I stroked the delicate piece. My father had bought it for my mother when they first met. Well, that's what he said, but I think it was the payment for the night they shared. I gathered a few strands of my hair and twisted it before using the pin to hold it in place. With a final judging look in the mirror, I deemed myself adequately dressed and left the room to meet my family outside.

My father and Avis stood back to back, laughing about something. I watched from the doorway, amused. My top of my little brother's head didn't even reach our fathers shoulder blades. At least he had managed to forget about the Reaping for a moment. That's more than a lot got these days. When they took notice of me, they both shared a look.

"Wren, you look…" My father started, lips forming the yearly compliment she received every reaping.  _You look beautiful_.

Avis snorted, interrupting him. "You look like a  _girl_ ," he chortled. Dad smacked the back of his head while I laughed.

"I've always looked like a girl," I said, walking on my tiptoes to the pair. "You just can't see it under all the dirt from the Hob." When I reached my little brother, I leaned down and pressed a kiss to his black hair.

"Ugh, Wren," he whined, pushing at me. He was much too small for a twelve year old, and even if he had run at me full tilt I doubt I would have moved an inch. I just gave another laugh, the sound chasing away my fear. At least for the moment.

Robin sighed, but he had his own small smile. "Come on, let's go." I grinned and put my hand in his while my other arm wrapped around Avis. We hopped down the steps, our boots sending up plumes of dirt. As we did, something fell out of Avis's pocket onto the ground. He squeaked and went to pick it up, but I beat him too it. When the wooden recorder was in the palm of my hand, I gave him a look.

"Avis." He refused to look at me. "What did I tell you? Don't put it in your pocket! Mr. Everdeen worked real hard on this for you, and you treat it like trash."

My father watched on as I put my hands on my hips and Avis scuffed the ground with his shoes. Avis mumbled something incomprehensible, and I gave a sigh. Turning to the supposed parent out of the three of us, I held the small wooden recorder out to him. He obediently took it, only to put it in his own pocket. He did not seem phased at my dark look. "Tell you what," I told the downtrodden boy. "I'll stitch up a little halter for you, so you can wear it around your neck. How does that sound?" He immediately brightened, and he wrapped his small fingers around my own.

Other families, similar to ours, prepped their children with solemn expressions. Unlike us, they didn't seem to be capable of forgetting the cloud that loomed above them. They joined up with us on our trek, and soon we began a sordid mob of duly dressed people. We arrived to District 12's mediocre town square in no time at all, our arrival marked with towering lights and giant screens. I was about to separate from the boys of my family to join the other 16-year-old girls, but a small form launched at me from behind. The force of the impact almost knocked me off my feet. I twisted in the small arms that held me prisoner.

"Katniss?" I said in surprise. "What are you doing here?" Katniss Everdeen, eldest of two daughters from the aforementioned Mr. Everdeen, was a sweet girl of nine. She lived further down in the seam than my family. We knew each other from our fathers, who were both miners on the same team. I babysat the girls every once in awhile, and we had become fast friends. Kinda, anyway. Katniss was a hard girl to get to know.

The girl looked up at me with bright, intelligent eyes. "I wanted to find you." She looked at Avis, who kept glancing at her with shy eyes. "Hi, Avis."

The boy blushed and grabbed our father's hand. "Uh, D- I thin- Um, I think I'm suppose to go- over there…" He ran away as if the hounds of hell were on his heels. Robin and I shared a knowing look. Katniss, however, was clueless, and just turned her gaze to me. Disentangling myself from her, I held her at arms length.

"Well, here I am." Before I could question her further, a crudely carved wooden block was forced into my hands.

"Here," Katniss said. "I made you a horse. I know you like horses." The pride was evident in her usually bland voice. I obediently held it up for observation.

Oh. That's what it was. I gave her a practiced smile. "Aw, thanks Kat. It's great."

"No it isn't," she replied bluntly. "But I'm not that good at carving yet, so hold onto it for now. You'll get a better one later."

That managed to pull a bark of laughter from my lips. "Okay," I managed. Her blunt honesty had always been refreshing to me. I went to put it in my pocket, only to remember I was wearing a dress. "Do you think you could hold onto it for me?" I asked. "I don't have any way to carry it. You can give it to me after the Reaping." Katniss made a face at my choice of clothing, but obediently took her gift back. Someone shouted from the other side of the square, and another voice joined in. "I think your Dad is calling for you," I informed the child. She made another face, but nodded. Turning to leave, she gave me one last look.

"Don't get reaped."

The demand was met with another patient smile. "I'll try not to." Everyone tried. But there was a reason this was a game of chance. Seemingly satisfied with my answer, she ran off into the crowd, vanishing amongst the browns and greys. She was a sweet child, with a voice like honey when she sang. Her sister was adorable as well. It would be horrible when the pair were eligible for reaping.

I walked over to my designated section, obediently allowing myself to be squashed by the bodies of other girls my age. I nodded to those that bothered to note my presence. We were just sheep up for slaughter, all cornered with no idea who would be plucked from the herd. I kept my gaze straight, watching with little expression as Mayor Undersee and Mayoria Kipler chatted. Haymitch Abernathy, our single living Victor, was slumped in his seat, a bottle of something undoubtedly alcoholic in his hand.

Then the clock tower struck two, and silence fell like a blanket over the town square. Something cold gripped my heart, but I pushed away the fear.  _I don't have anything to worry about. My name won't be picked. I won't be picked. I won't. I won't._

The Mayor began to read the history of Panem, of the late District 13 and how the games were put into place to keep control of the Districts. He finished by introducing Haymitch, who seemed to be asleep. When they failed to revive him, he moved onto Mayoria, who stood with a flourish. She was wearing what looked like a bed sheet that had been folded in half, a hole cut for her head, and tied with a shimmering green belt. Impossibly high shoes lifted her a foot above the ground, leaving her to tower over the stout mayor.

"Welcome," she said in a sing song voice, "to the 65 annual Hunger Games! May the odds be  _ever_  in your favor!" Though she sounded cheerful and preppy, her face looked solemn. Well, it usually did. I hadn't seen her express any other emotion than blank sadness. She went on to speak about the honor of representing our District, and how much she just  _loved_  District 12. I clenched my hands into fists. The sooner she announced the dead meat, the sooner I could go home.

Finally, she walked over to one of the two large glass bowls that contain the names of every girl and every boy. "Ladies," she said, her voice a purr, but her face maintaining its masklike features. She dipped a pale hand covered in silver rings into the bowl, rummaging about for a minutes. When she finally decided that she had the right girl, she lifted her hands and flipped open the little slip.

My heart stopped beating.

"And, the female tribute from District 12, is…" She gave a long pause for dramatic effect. The girls around me tensed as one entity. "Sorrel Rivermark!"

I couldn't keep my sigh of relief to myself as a 15-year-old girl stumbled her way to the stage, already sobbing her eyes out. My heart went out to the girl. She was small, frail. Blue eyes scanned the crowd desperately as Mayoria laid a possessive hand on her thin shoulder. Her vivid, unnaturally orange eyes seem to glow as she asked for volunteers. Silence was her only response.

With a happy chuckle, she then moved over to the other bowl. "And now, for the men!" I took a moment to consider that she said men when, in all actuality, she was looking at children. Again her hand dipped into the sea of papers. I didn't even think to pray for Avis. His name was only in there once. The chances of his name being pulled were slim to none. I let my eyes close and smiled. A true, genuine smile.  _We were safe._ We would all go home, Father, Avis, and I, and I would make us some rabbit stew with the string of hares the Everdeens caught. Our two families would come together for a meal before watching the beginning of the games together. Then, I would tuck Avis into bed while the men smoked their pipes out-

"Avis Winters!"

_Crack_.

The silence this time suffocated me. The high collar of my dress seemed stupid now - how did I expect to breathe in this thing? From behind me people shuffled and moved out of the way. Shoes, once grey, now an off white, pass me by. "N… no," I choked.  _I can't breathe, I can't see,_  and Avis is climbing the steps. My feet were frozen to the floor as Mayoria laid her hand on his shoulder as well.  _He's crying. I know he is. He's such a wimp._  Mayoria asked for volunteers. Nobody spoke.

Except me.

"Avis?" I didn't know why his name was the only thing I can manage. There was shuffling as the girls around me averted their eyes. "S… someone!" I looked at the boys, many who I knew. I had talked to those kids, played with them. They knew Avis wouldn't survive. Why wasn't anyone saying anything? And then I was crying, shoving my way through the sea of people. I stumbled into the square and glare down the boys. They definitely weren't men. Just pathetic  _children_. Their eyes were filled guilt, but they didn't do anything. From somewhere behind me, I heard my father say my name. But the sound that once could have soothed me only enraged me further. "Cowards!" I screamed at them. "Good for nothing  _cowards!_ " Hands gripped my elbow and jerked me roughly.

"Calm down," said the Peacekeeper, not unkindly. I think I remember him. I had probably been at the hob once or twice. Had maybe even given me a smile.

But I couldn't be calm, and I'm thrashing in his arms. Another Peacekeeper grabbed me. "Avis!" I'm screaming his name, desperate and worst of all desperate for people to see. Maybe if they saw how much I needed him, someone would step up. I saw him turn to me, I saw him run out of Mayoria's grasp and leap off the platform onto the cobblestone. He fell, but got back up and starts running to me. I didn't even have the sense of mind to worry about his bleeding knees. But another Peacekeeper grabbed him, holding him back as we reach for each other.

"Wren!" He's started screaming too.

The citizens of District 12 stood and watched.

And then the life changing words lifted out of my mouth like doves before I could stop them. "I volunteer!" And everything stood still. Crystal clear. The Mayor, who at that point, had been staring with the rest of the District, shook his head and flapped his mouth like a fish. It was Mayoria who spoke, voice as always more expressive than her face.

"You cannot volunteer for the male tribute." Disdain, a smidgen of sadness.

I panicked. "No, for the girl." Her blue eyes found my own as I spoke, and her tears seem to flow a little heavier. "I volunteer for Sorrel." I'm crying now, too. "I volunteer, please, please," and I'm begging,  _pleading_  to be allowed to die in place of this scrawny child.

My father was causing a commotion behind me. I could hear his frantic cries, only muted by the pounding in my ears. I would have turned to see him. But my resolve was shaky enough without the thought of the parent I would be leaving behind. The two (conscious) people on the stage gave each other a look of confusion and questioning. Mayoria finally spoke after a pause. "Fine. Peacekeepers?" They released me and I fell on my hands and knees, struggling to breathe. A figure slammed into me, and the familiar smell of dirt and pine wrapped around me like an old friend. I held onto Avis tightly, and my heart began to calm. He was not even a hundred pounds, and I lifted him easily though I struggled to my feet. I began the long trek up to the stage, feeling the additional weight of my fathers stare.

Haymitch had awoken during the whole scene, and he watched me with bloodshot eyes. I ignored him and stood on the stage. Sorrel, the girl I had replaced, scrambled away as though I would change my mind at any second. And I wanted to. I didn't look at her. I didn't look at my District either. I  _hated_  them in that moment.  _Hated_  them. How could they let a 12 year old, sickly boy go fight to the death in an arena? My hands fisted into Avis's shirt.

A hand landed on my shoulder. I shrugged it off and took a step away from Mayoria. Her voice was annoyed when she asked for my name. "My name is Wren Winters." I tilted my head up and locked eyes with one of the many cameramen on the roofs. I wondered how I looked, as I stared at everyone watching, or who would be watching. Did I look strong? Or was I a weak girl, with a butterfly pin in her hair?

"Oh, siblings! This will make for an interesting games this year!" Mayoria cheered. That time, when she put her hand on my shoulder, her nails dug in, keeping me in place. They held me like fangs as the Mayor managed to stumble his way through the required reading of the Treaty of Treason. Then we were surrounded by Peacekeepers, one of them I recognize as the man who tried to restrain me earlier. I turned my back on my District and walked into the Justice building. I stopped crying. I was done.


End file.
